


T Is for Talisker ( or Y Is Not For Yugoslovia)

by Iwantthatcoat



Series: Air Eurus...The Wee Rocky Outpost In The Middle of Nowhere Airline! [3]
Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cabinlock, Gen, Humor, Sherlock/Cabin Pressure crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2018-12-25 11:39:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12035115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: With Eurus in a bit more secure facility nowadays, Mycroft has decided to not let her airdot go to waste, and is using GERTI as transport for whatever missions might require a little-known charter firm-- including bringing his family to and from Sherrinford. It's an in-air battle of wits concerning aged whiskey and word games amongst both the Holmes siblings and their travel providers (who are, as Arthur might put it, quite happy to provide the service of the flying of you, by us).





	1. Chapter 1

"MJN Air, how can I help you?"

"Ms Knapp-Shappey?"

"Yes, this is she."

"Mr Holmes will require your services on Thursday next."

"Oh. Very well, then."

"He will be traveling with his family-- his parents and his younger brother. Mr Holmes is especially fond of fine cheeses, fresh fruit, and while not always the case, on this particular trip he requests spirits as well. I will send you an itemised list of preferred items, as well as approved caterers."

"Excellent. I shall have everything prepared for the trip." She hit the final consonant sharply just prior to disconnecting the call. 

_Douglas._

****

Sherlock's last case had finalised quite close to Fitton Airfield, so he opted to say goodbye to John and taxi over himself rather than meet up with his family (minus incarcerated members). John had graciously declined to accompany him on the visit, by means of forgetting he had to fill in for a shift that day. It was fine, really. Ever since Sherlock had found out about the _texts_ , he anticipated that John would do his best never to see 'her' (the only manner in which John would refer to Eurus), again. 

Fortunately, he had anticipated this outcome, and brought his violin with him. This would give him extra time to amuse himself by privately assessing the craft and crew before the rest of the Holmeses arrived in the car the charter firm was providing. It wasn't much, but it would at least serve as some sort of distraction. These trips were becoming progressively more taxing, both physically and emotionally, than anyone could possibly imagine. 

At the hangar location, he was surprised to have found a rather unusual aircraft. A Lockheed McDonnell 3-12. He looked it over before finally knocking on the door--only, it had been left ajar. He pushed on it and it swung open.

"....A shoe from Peru, some pants from France, a... chalice from Dallas, and some..., ummm, some geese from Greece!"

"Oh! Hello!" an overly-cheerful voice rang out. "It is my pleasure to be welcoming you aboard today to fly with us, so... welcome aboard today from me, and from the others, who, together... make us!"

"Charmed," said Sherlock, declining to shake and instead shoving his hands even deeper into his coat pockets. He ducked inside the aircraft to find the first officer being frisked.

"I"m telling you Carolyn, I wasn't aware there would be any aboard. You don't normally carry the stuff, and how was I to know your special passengers would be... quite so special?"

Sherlock smiled. "Do you steal other things from passengers as well, or just whiskey?"

"I assure you, I am not a thief. Usually."

"Good, because I am a consulting detective. Usually. But not today. Today, I am a violinist." He looked carefully at the seats and decided the best course of action was to keep the case vertical and strap it in with the safety restraints. "I mention my profession because this instrument is more valuable than your aeroplane. If you feel the urge to steal something and wish to avoid prosecution, I highly recommend it be the whiskey."

"He nearly _always_ does," said Arthur.

"Well, he won’t this time," said Carolyn. "Now, I am off to pick up the rest of our passengers. And I shall be taking this with me, under my personal protection until its use is required." She, and the Talisker, deplaned GERTI.

Sherlock turned to Douglas, who was straightening his jacket and attempting to restore his sense of dignity. "You can simply transfer the contents into another container, refill the empty bottle with other liquor and reseal the cap. Any mild adhesive should do the trick.”

"Like... nail varnish?"

"Yes, that would be ideal. Of course, nail varnish in your dop kit would be a dead giveaway."

"It wasn't when I tried that... two years ago."

"I see. You need a novel approach."

"Yes, based on what's at hand. I had no time to prepare."

"Of course, if he requested this brand specifically and tasted your 'alternative', he'd know in an instant what you were up to and would search for the hidden whiskey. You would need a remarkably good hiding place."

"Everyone's palate is shot above--"

"I assure you he would know. And _if_ he chooses to bother with a search for it, he _will_ find it. You don't know who you are up against."

"I see."

"The loo."

"What?"

"If it were me, hiding something like that from Mycroft, I would pour the whiskey into a modified, airtight oxygen dispenser bag, and store it inside the toilet holding tank. He might go in the loo to freshen up a bit, but he wouldn't use the facilities. Not Mycroft. And even if he should happen to suspect it was hidden there, he would forfeit it rather than go after it."

Douglas looked shocked.

"What? It's protected. And besides, you're not the one who's going to drink it anyway-- clearly you have been sober for many years. Anyone purchasing smuggled goods should have a thorough understanding that contraband is frequently stored in places that are far from palatable-- the buyer chooses to remain blissfully ignorant of that possibility, and the system works."

"The NHS should consider using you for their drug prevention programs. I'll...consider...it as a backup plan. Any other options?"

"Extreme turbulence. He feels too ill to drink. He forgets about it. Then you don't need a scheme; he leaves, and you simply take it."

"Extreme turbulence?" A captain could always be counted on to pick up on certain words, even from across the length of the aeroplane.

"Mr Holmes, the younger, was suggesting we might... create... some turbulence to put Mr Holmes, the... middle... off his lunch. Then, I could--"

"Oh, no. No, no, no, we are not going to 'create turbulence' on my aircraft. It is my duty, as a professional--"

"Professional. You seem to like using that word. I do not think it means what you--"

"No, Douglas. I _am_ a professional. I take my profession quite... professionally. And I will not be flying in a potentially unsafe manner for you to more easily commit --" Martin looked at Sherlock and clamped his mouth shut.

"I'm not an official member of the police force and feel no obligation to pursue cases that are not of personal interest. And even if I was, this is _Mycroft's_ whiskey. I could be easily persuaded to turn a blind eye. The first officer does this frequently, does he?" Sherlock asked Martin. "Is it an annual event?"

"Uh. Yes," he replied, reluctantly.

"At least biannually now, it seems," added Douglas.

"Every two years?" That was Arthur. "Bi means two, like a bicycle has two wheels, and annual means year, like... well, annual means year."

"No, twice a year," Douglas corrected. "Every two years is biennial. With an 'e'."

"So if you spell it wrong, it becomes a different word? _Wow!_ Mrs Dimand was right! Spelling _is_ really important!"

"That's not the only letter that is-- yes, Arthur, spelling is really important. So, this way it means twice a year... like--," he froze in thought, unable to find a suitable example.

"Like turning the clocks," said Sherlock. "Well, if it is fixing to be a _biannual_ occurrence, you shouldn't need my help in planning. There are at least five options with a reasonable chance of success. I'll just leave it to you then and watch. Should you make an attempt, this might just be a far more entertaining flight than I had expected."

****

Daddy Holmes leaned against the window listening to music on his headphones as Mummy sat beside him looking through the newspaper-- when not suspiciously eyeing the general condition of the aircraft. Sherlock had claimed the window in front and was sprawled across the two seats with his legs still extending into the aisle, his eyes closed but his hands making rapid and intricate fingerings along the fabric. Mycroft was on the aisle seat opposite Sherlock. His laptop on the window seat beside him. 

"How long by plane?" Sherlock asked. As opposed to boat. Or helicopter.

"Two hours."

"Why couldn't you have put her on a closer island?"

"That would rather defeat the purpose."

Sherlock abruptly stopped tapping at the same moment his father's music selection changed.

"You are enjoying yourself, improvising harmony for Spanish Flea on violin?"

"For now, yes. There isn't exactly an inflight entertainment system."

"You should find out what the crew does on long flights. They have experience."

"Word games. I heard them."

"Do you... want to play word games?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Mycroft, stop acting like this is some family road trip. I know where we are headed is the last place you'd want to be, and I am cooped up here in a private plane which is bringing back all manner of delightful memories of the last time I was on one... and yet, I still find recalling that moment more pleasant than playing some game with you where the last letter of the country I choose is the first letter of the one you have to name."

"You are right. If I were you, I wouldn't play that game either."

Mummy chuckled and turned a page.

Sherlock humphed. "Why does everyone seem to think I've no sense of geography whatsoever? I'm no _diplomat_ ," he practically spat the word out, "but I do have an international reputation. I simply don't wish to play."

Mummy looked up from her paper. "Really, Myc, why don't you give yourself a handicap? You can just stick to European countries. So you won't come up with something no one has ever heard of before."

Sherlock stopped tapping and gestured with a wave for him to go first. Mycroft nodded. 

"Italy."

"Yugoslavia," Sherlock countered.

"Yugoslavia no longer exists, Brother Mine. Do try again."

A trumpet blared out through Daddy Holmes's headphones. 

Sherlock capitalised on the moment. "Oh, do I hear the opening strains of 'Tijuana Taxi'? That sure brings back happy memories. No violin though. How odd. And it fits so well with Mariachi. I think I might just... write a part!" He resumed tapping on the chair.

Mummy frowned. "Yemen."

"Norway."

The plane was quiet, but for the faint sounds of a trumpet and Sherlock's tapping. A few silent moments later, Carolyn appeared next to Mycroft's seat, looking somewhat uncertain. He simply stared at her. That made it worse. Sherlock glanced over at the two of them.

"Good... day, sir. Would you care for a... drink?" 

Sherlock grinned. "Oh, I see. Can we play too?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"You don't. Hmmmmm. And what is your name?"

"You can call me Ca."

Mycroft smiled slowly as he turned toward Sherlock. "And would you like to tell _Ca_ _your_ name?"

"Why, no, _Myc_. I think she might feel more at ease if she just called me 'sir'. But I know you want her to call you 'Myc'. Hmmm, I think I like this game. What Scotch will you serve us... Ca?"

Carolyn froze.

"Don't you know the brand name?" Sherlock prodded.

".... A... quite... good one." Carolyn left quickly and returned carrying a large bottle. "Perhaps you might care for some spirits? Talisker,” she hesitated, “Myc?”

"Mycroft. Please. And yes."

"Truce, I take it? Did he tell you just now that it would be fine to drop the game when you talk to us?” Sherlock piped up.

Carolyn hesitated before answering. "Well, yes. Would you care for some Talisker as well?"

"No, thank you. None for me." Mummy looked over and smiled her approval.

Daddy Holmes was absorbed in both his music and the view out the window, and Mummy denied his drink on his behalf. She turned back at Sherlock again, who met her eyes and wrinkled his brow in silent confusion.

"Oh, don't feel like you shouldn't for his sake. You _can_ have a drink without affecting Sherlock's sobriety-- ever since the umbilical cord was cut."

"It is something _polite_ people might occasionally chose to do, Mycroft." She turned to Carolyn. "But, yes, I think I'll have some please."

Mycroft took a single sip before exclaiming, "This is definitely _not_ Talisker." He put his glass down slowly, gauging everyone's reaction as he did so.

Sherlock smiled, and continued his tapping. Mummy turned to Mycroft in surprise, then looked down at her own glass. She held it up to the light questioningly, took a sip, spit it back into the glass and wiped her mouth with a cocktail napkin. "No. No it isn't. That is some revolting brand of... something. Paint thinner comes to mind."

"I... I sincerely apologise," stammered Carolyn. "I understood why Douglas would steal from Mr Birling, He's a horrible, horrible man. But..." 

Sherlock chuckled.

"It was kept in a locked box in the galley." 

Sherlock leaped upright with a dramatic splaying of limbs that, oddly enough, did little to hamper his lightning-quick efficiency to reassemble himself into a forward-leaning crouch. "And you are the only one with the key?"

"Yes. Yes. And let me reassure you there is nothing more important to me than your continued business and I would never--"

"Yes, yes, I know. You would never risk a new account worth thousands of pounds over a £200 bottle of whiskey. You are right, your being involved doesn't make sense. Let me see where you keep your glassware." He sprinted off to the galley as Arthur came speeding down the aisle, and they nearly collided. 

"Did he do it? Did he take it?" cried Arthur.

Douglas was following behind. "I didn't. I never had the chance to come up with a suitable plan."

"You had a whole month," said Carolyn. "Even if you procrastinated, you could have come up with something."

"Yes, theoretically, but the other times I had a whole year. And I didn't even know there would be Talisker on board until I was greeted by Phil in a rather intimate fashion. I have no supplies!"

Mummy turned to Mycroft, disregarding the First Officer and CEO, still arguing loudly just outside the cabin door, and spoke softly. "That was so sweet of you, Mykie."

"Thank you for joining in. I was... mildly concerned," he replied, as the crew continued on.

Mummy frowned. "You think I don't know my boys? And you are right. If it was just you drinking, he would have demanded to try it himself." She finished the rest of her drink. "Actually, it is quite good. And if he had anyway?"

"I had already sneaked in a generous helping of peppermint breath freshener. I was hoping that would give it a certain... eau de mouthwash."

She beamed. "He did need a distraction. He is doing remarkably well with her, but... well..."

Daddy pushed a button on his player and looked up. "Mykie, did you go and make a nice treasure hunt for Will, like old times?" 

Mycroft nodded, slowly. "It was the least I could do."

"Good."

"First Officer Richardson!"

Douglas ended his counterargument mid-sentence and headed sheepishly over to Mycroft.

"The bottle of Talisker-- and yes, it is Talisker-- is yours. Do with it as you see fit. Empty it out and store it somewhere. I suggest the lock box, after they have examined it thoroughly. Then, refill it with an acceptable facsimile and bring it back here. And do be quick about it. He will want to examine the bottle and at least... sniff it... so put this in it." He handed Douglas the remaining breath spray. "And for God's sake, keep the empty spray bottle in your jacket pocket! Don't go disposing of it in the bin!"

Douglas coughed a bit and headed to the galley. He headed back with the cheapest whiskey he could find, now with a minty-fresh scent.

"Well that's done. Is the original adequately hidden?“

Douglas nodded.

"Now, this misdirection won't last long. We can slow him down, but we will not stop him. If we land first, he will have to suspend his investigation; if your luck holds, he just might lose interest upon his return." Mycroft sighed. "Sometimes these visits are exhausting." 

Douglas nodded and awaited instruction.

"We want him to genuinely suspect you, but not too quickly. He will likely notice something indicative of theft about your demeanor. What are you smuggling on this flight?"

"I'm not--"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Please do not feign indignation." Mycroft brought his hand beneath his chin. "You don't seem the type for dealing with the level of violence associated with truffles. And I doubt you have the connections required for Choco Pies--"

Arthur burst into the conversation. "People smuggle Choco-Pies?"

Mycroft ignored him and continued. "You'd be swapping with other traders like yourself, not the Black Market. Arthur. Where was your previous stop?"

"Why bring him into it?"

"Because, clearly, he won't lie. Arthur?"

"Jamaica, but--"

"Ackee fruit. Surely you've a bag secreted somewhere. If he is on to you, let him find it by moving next to wherever you've hidden it."

Douglas's mouth fell open.

"Oh, and I recommend you be the one to fly the aeroplane. It would be in keeping with your having stolen the Talisker to act in that manner."

"Wouldn't it be more likely for me to try and _not_ avoid the detective, if I was guilty?"

Mycroft gave him an assessing glance. "I am beginning to question my decision on the matter."

Douglas smiled. "So, I was right?"

"No, you are horribly wrong. If you had stolen the whiskey and you weren't especially bright, like this one--"

"Hey!"

"--You'd be afraid of both of us and avoid us entirely."

"Well, yes. I do believe, as much as it is a stretch to put myself in Arthur's shoes, that I would."

"And if you were clever and had stolen it, you would want to make minimal contact with both of us. So as not to appear suspicious."

"As I suggested."

"However, if you were truly clever-- which, at one point, both Sherlock and I were under the misapprehension that you were-- you would know we would be fully aware of that ploy. You would hope you could outsmart us, and you would, in fact, stay away. But more importantly-- all these bluffs and double bluffs aside-- if you truly possessed that level of intelligence," Mycroft's voice was grave, bordering on malevolent, "you would know who you were dealing with. And you would avoid Sherlock Holmes at all costs."

Arthur spoke with great caution. "So he's a really, really good detective?"

Mycroft nodded.

"Like Miss Marple?"

Mycroft smiled slowly.

"Woooooowwwwww! Can I watch?"

Douglas looked anxious. "Your best bet, Arthur, is for you to avoid him, too. You might say something to give it away."

"No. His... best bet... is not only to watch, but to ask as many questions as possible. Follow him round the plane. And don't feel as if you have to limit yourself to questions about detective work-- though by all means ask as many questions about detective work as you wish. Ask him about anything at all. I assure you he will love it; though he will never tell you so. Quite the opposite, actually."

Douglas smiled. "Yes, Arthur. Because if he let you know how much fun it was to answer questions whilst working, he would be afraid it would embarrass you, and make you self conscious, and then you would ask _less questions_."

"Questions. Right. Yes. Got it." Arthur headed to the flight deck.

"Oh, and Arthur?"

"Yes, Douglas?"

"Perhaps you could even teach him something. You do know an awful lot about polar bears."

"Yes! Yes, I do know a lot about polar bears! Thank you, Douglas!"

"You're _welcome_ , Arthur."


	2. Chapter 2

"Do you need to know a lot of things to be a detective?"

"Not necessarily. But you need to know _a lot_ about _certain_ things." Sherlock found himself much more amenable to conversation than he had been previously. His mood was improving, and with it, his capability of handling the inane.

" _I_ know a lot about certain things."

"Such as?" 

Case in point-- he didn't even think he would regret asking the steward this, or his having answered in the first place. After all, this was just a matter of searching the aircraft for probable hiding places; it didn't exactly require genuine effort. There was a bottle in the holding bay floorboard and another in a hollowed-out operations manual. If this was, in any real sense, about reuniting Mycroft with his whiskey for drinking purposes, he could have given him his share and more-- but neither was the missing bottle. They had been stolen well over a year ago. The one in the hatch even looked to have been done nearly three years ago, judging by the fading of the label, and had been removed from its secreted location and then returned. 

"I know quite a lot about bears. For example, did you know a grizzly bear can strip a deer's carcass in 6 minutes?"

Sherlock stopped searching, looked Arthur over to see if the information being presented to him was in any way accurate, decided the man was incapable of anything save truth and was very likely to cling tenaciously to any scrap he managed to attain, and replied, "No, actually. No, I didn't."

"I don't think you have solved very many deer murders though. Probably. The famous ones I know are all drawings."

"Actually, Arthur, information like that can be extrapolated to provide insight as to the length of time it would take for grizzly bear to do the same to a human. If, for example, there was a body of a missing camper..."

"A human wasn't in the book. Just a deer. Oh, and I also know quite a bit about crazy golf. Though I think crazy golf might not be so useful."

"If I should ever have a case that involves crazy golf, I promise to contact you immediately."

"Really?"

"Really. And there is even precedent. A 42-year-old father of seven, was stabbed in the neck with a broken golf putter at a glow-in-the dark mini-golf facility in south-end Barrie three years ago."

"Wow. That's _horrible_."

"And it could happen anywhere, at any time. So, yes, I will use your expertise as required. Anything else you are expert on?"

Arthur thought. Sherlock waited. 

"I do know a lot about Egypt. Not Egypt today, though. _Ancient_ Egypt. They don't do mummies anymore. Oh, and I also know a lot about Timbuktu. That's more recent. It's in Mali. Not long ago, they had a civil war."

"I see."

"And the secret to true happiness."

Sherlock stopped his search of the cabin for a moment. If anyone were to be trusted with the secret of true happiness, it would be someone just like Arthur.

"And what, pray tell, does that involve?"

"Well, it's lots of little things, really. Like when your bath is just the right temperature. That sort of thing. And it's not just having it be right. It's noticing that it _is_ right. Though it does have to be right first, in order for you to notice it. But the point is, sometimes it is exactly right, and you don't notice."

Under it all was a certain refreshing logic. Maybe it was just the mid-case high, or maybe he actually liked Arthur just a bit. His idiocy was so refreshingly transparent, compared to the others. Still, Sherlock chose not to reward him with anything more than a blank stare,

"But really, if I had to pick the thing I was best at, it would be crazy golf. Oh, but there's making teas and coffees. I am quite good at that. Would you like some?"

Sherlock paused. It seemed somehow right to take him up on the offer. "Yes.. I'll --"

"No, no, I'll get it. Just wait here. Well, it's not as if you'd be going anywhere, but just...wait here."

Sherlock continued his search and found little else, save evidence of an ongoing smuggling trade of which he was already well-aware, and impatiently waited for Arthur to return so he could move on to the aft cabin.

Arthur returned wearing a wide grin and carrying a cup of steaming coffee. He offered it to Sherlock. "There you are. Coffee. Black, two sugars."

Sherlock moved slowly to take it whilst examining Arthur. "You...didn't ask anyone... did you?"

"No, I didn't. I just sort of...know. And before you ask, I don't know how I know. Just a special talent, I guess. From doing it so much?"

Sherlock looked at Arthur and tried to deduce exactly what beverage he might prefer, but came up short. He stared at him some more and then simply nodded. 

"It's not exactly a particularly _useful_ skill, I know. It's not like you could use it to solve crimes or anything, but--"

"You never know when some seemingly useless skill will suddenly prove essential. I thought the solar system was pointless--"

" _I know!_ I told Mrs. Dimond that! But she said I had to learn it anyway."

"Well, the point being, any skill could potentially be useful under the right circumstance. No way to get into the cargo hold while in motion… unless you have made any unusual aircraft modifications?"

"No. He couldn't have gotten in there once we took off, or else it wouldn’t have cost us ten thousand pounds to save Mr Fluffypants.”

Sherlock let the second part of the sentence wash over him. "I'm not ruling out that he didn't make the switch beforehand, but seeing as there is no way for me to search the area until landing.... Now, to the rear."

****

 

"Where is he now?" Mummy asked.

"About to search the back of the plane, I suspect."

As if in response to Mycroft's statement, Arthur sped down the aisle with Sherlock close behind.

"Well, perhaps your _assistant_ could see his way to bringing us something else, then?"

"Can't. Busy," Sherlock called back without so much as a turn of the head as he zipped by Mycroft and Mummy. Daddy had returned to his music.

"Wonderful." Mycroft faced Mummy. "Fortunately, I don't much care for the stuff."

"You requested it just for Sherlock! Oh, Mycroft, that is--"

"Yes, well. I heard about the ongoing thefts when I interviewed Mr Birling during clearance procedures. Keeping Sherlock from dwelling on unpleasantness is in everyone's best interest and can hardly be construed of as an act of charity."

"Yes, yes, it was out of purely selfish intent of course," she exaggerated. Then she squeezed her husband's thigh lightly. He turned toward her and they exchanged knowing smiles.

As the captain announced the beginning of their descent, Sherlock tried to rush back to the flight deck without appearing to be doing so, his lips pressed tightly together in measured determination. He made a dead stop as he passed the galley, and Arthur nearly slammed into him as he stood in the aisle and blinked. 

_"It doesn't make sense, My!”_

_"Of course it does. Why do you think you have it wrong?"_

_Sherlock glared at the freezer door like it was his mortal enemy. “The freezer was the very first place I looked and it wasn't in there! There was just the music."_

_"And the frozen food."_

_"Well, the part that matters is the music.”_

_Stupid food. Stupid anything that wasn’t that coin. He hadn’t even seen it yet, but he wanted it more than anything he owned. Usually, Mycroft’s treasure was just dull old candy. He pouted and went over the steps again that had brought him here._

_The sheet music had been the clue to head to the piano, and he had dutifully lifted its lid to find the hint for the next location... but the note left there had been written in a language he barely recognised. Well, he had recognized l’orange. That was easy enough. That meant fruit bowl. But nothing was to be found there. Maybe he had needed to translate the whole thing after all. So he had._

_Sherlock had scaled the shelving of the bookcase to reach the French-English dictionary and began looking up words. That’s when he had seen the note tucked into the binding asking him to lower the density of covalently bonded hydrogen and oxygen without adding energy. The freezer. It had to be the freezer. It wasn’t as if there was another way to get water cold enough. And it did say without adding engery so the kettle wouldn’t do. He headed back to the kitchen._

_“I found that puzzle about the oranges that wasn’t really about the oranges and the note in the French book…”_

_"And then you found yourself suddenly back at the freezer again. What you have to ask yourself is...is it precisely the same freezer?"_

_“Of course it's the same freezer! And I already looked in the freezer and it will just send me back to the piano again!" Sherlock reached up high and opened the freezer door with an exaggerated motion, proving just how pointless the task was. Inside, the piano book was leaning against a box of ice lollies. "See!" He gestured towards it with a flourish._

_“And is it precisely the same piano book?”_

_Sherlock picked up the book, ready to toss it right in Mycroft's annoying face, and nearly missed the golden coin which lay beneath it. He wrapped both hands around it. It was barely even cold._

Sherlock's gaze lingered on the secured box where Carolyn had initially kept the Talisker... and he smiled. He glanced back at his family (a direct line of sight from the galley), caught Mycroft's eye, and then headed back to retrieve the bottle from the floorboard. Arthur followed in a respectful hush.

"And some Talisker for you." Sherlock presented the bottle with a flourish and poured out a glass. Mycroft eyed it with suspicion.

"Ah. You located it," he said mere seconds too late. He took the glass and placed it on the inelegant plastic tray. 

"No longer interested? Of course, you might just be asking yourself... is it... _precisely the same_ Talisker?" 

Sherlock grinned, then whisked around to face his temporary assistant. "All right, Arthur! Lead on! I believe we have yet to interview the pilot and copilot concerning their recent actions. They will, of course, need to make a statement clarifying where they were during the events in question."

Arthur’s eyes sparkled like sunshine on a wing of a yet-to-be de-iced aeroplane in the middle of a St. Petersburg winter. "In their own words?"

"In whomever's words they wish to use.”


End file.
